Gathering up loose papers from on and around my dusty desk. Who knows what’s written in my detached handwriting on these folded up, corroded sheets. I had figured I was on a path to organizing my life. It seemed to be the way things were going, but these pieces of scribble point to a life unaware of a goal or means to an end.
A list of writers, photographers, film directors – too long ago to remember. The start of a story from what seems years ago. My handwriting is the same now. A poem I liked enough to separate from the pages of one of my journals. Notes about a book I had read. All just remnants of thoughts gone too far but not quite in the right direction. Now little more than grocery lists. I had thought some value and importance had directed my hand to scratch these words onto loose paper, but they ended up crudely folded and placed under bills or slipped into this dusty desk drawer to wait. They are here now. They have arrived again. The words remain fossilized in my basic language but the thoughts, their motives and desire, have disintegrated – the gone people of a lost civilization.